


Haze

by vmdraco



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vmdraco/pseuds/vmdraco
Summary: He tries to cope, but he can't.  Not without both of them.





	Haze

It was still dark out when he opened his eyes. His tongue tasted sour and his eyes felt like they were glued shut. There weren’t any bright lights to blind him, the darkness surrounding his line of sight. The room still spun, and his head was killing him, yet he didn’t expect anything different. In the back of his mind, the euphoric effect of the booze was still present and tickling his subconscious. Yet, at the same time, it didn’t mask the emotions that started to surface the moment he was conscious.

The Doctor realized that he wasn’t in bed. The couch wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the flat, and he could tell by the knot forming on his lower back that it was the hand-me-down couch that Pete gave him for his own place. 

For a moment, the Doctor could only stare straight again, blinking at the sliding glass door where the blinds were pulled up halfway. The moon was out, and it showed just enough light to illuminate the outlines of the furniture in the room. The night suddenly came back to him, and he wished he could forget.

Based on the clutter that littered the room, he knew he had friends over. No, that wasn’t the correct word, ‘friends.’ More like acquaintances. The pub had been packed then and for some reason his gob ran away from him even more when he was drunk off of several glasses of whiskey. He didn’t even remember their faces or what their names were, but he had been packed into one of their cars and driven back to his flat, where the party continued. It had been fun. From what he could see of the solo cups, he recalled the bitter taste of ale and the amount of times his ‘friends’ had encouraged him to keep going. Then everything was a bit disorientating after that. 

And now he was alone. It made his chest ache.

The fan above him was the only noise he could hear. It was so quiet that he could hear his own breathing, the feeling of nausea penetrating the disassociation. He widened his eyes, realizing how little he could control his gag reflex.

He didn’t register him moving his legs into the bathroom, retching into the toilet. He was practically projectile vomiting into the seat as remnants of pub food and whiskey-infused bile plopped into the water. After several retches, his stomach was surprisingly calm and no longer felt like it was being twisted with his own hands. Almost bewilderedly, he stumbled out of the bathroom soon afterwards, exhaustion seeping in as sleep tugged at him. Why did he feel like he was having an out-of-body experience? His mind was blank of all thought, just how he liked it.

Thudding back onto the couch, the sounds of the fan on the ceiling lulled him to sleep as his already blank mind wiped itself completely.

* * *

Light beamed through the same sliding glass door. It was minimal, as it was overcast, but the Doctor still felt it beat into his skull. The alcohol had ceased to cause any other reactions, just leaving what remained of his mind in disarray. He didn’t want to be awake, didn’t want to stare out of the door that seemed to replicate his mood; it only brought up painful memories.

In a tired attempt to sleep more, he shut his eyes again, only for a crack of lightning to bolt him awake. He jumped, his single heart racing at the unexpected noise. It nearly made him cry. He felt his throat close up already, could feel tears prickling and held it back. Something so natural shouldn’t be overwhelming. And yet, it was almost symbolic.

He turned over, his face against the couch cushions as he made an attempt to keep sleeping. It was easier to sleep, to avoid the time on his phone that indicated that he should probably go to work. He didn’t bother checking. What was the point, anyway?

After an hour of dozing in and out of a bewildering state of mind, the Doctor sat up gingerly, the bags under his eyes weighing down his eyelids. He could only sit there, staring at nothing, slouched over and making no attempt to move. The mess of the living room was impalpable in his gaze. It was just visual stimuli to him, something to move around in and not to contemplate. The dryness of his throat made him ache, his body demanding he ease his thirst, so he did what he always did: go back to the fridge and pour himself some more whiskey. 

His phone kept ringing from the couch, but he didn’t make an attempt to acknowledge its existence. The digital clock on the kitchen counter read that it was closer to noon. He should have been at work around the early morning. Oh well.

The Doctor tipsily stood back up to place the half empty bottle back on top of the fridge, satisfied with the amount he gave himself, and stopped. His eyes roamed over the front of the fridge door, images and memories floating past. She still looked the same in his mind, yet it was years old, from 2005. What did she look like now? he wondered. Did she keep that straightened, blonde hair the last he saw of her? Or did she let it grow, leaving the bottled blonde behind in place of her natural mousey brown? Was she happy? Was her partner that held her while he was gone hold on to her as tightly as he used to? Did she hate him, or have pity for the man she had loved? Or was it all just a distant, unsympathetic memory that they left behind in favor of their future away from his pathetic existence?

_Had she ever wondered about him ever again?_

He saw himself with her, his arm sneakily draped across her shoulders in a gentle embrace that he remembered made his hearts skip their beats. When his TARDIS was still his. It made his head hurt even more. The photo was when he still traveled with her, before he was _this_. He forcefully swallowed the lump in his throat, yet a few stray tears in his eyes still escaped all the same. Why the fuck did he still have that photo on his fridge, to torture himself? He angrily tore it down, the magnets scattering to the floor as he stuck it in the trash. Fresh tears were escaping his eyes, and his expression softened at the realization of his actions. He shook his head, digging out the photo and thankful that nothing gross had stuck to the surface. He placed it in his pocket, a sickly feeling in his stomach as it seemed to feel ten times heavier than it really was.

Tossing back the remainder of his glass, he placed it firmly back on the table before retreating to the couch as though it were an old friend waiting to comfort him. His spot was still warm.

The Doctor could only stare out the sliding glass door, the rain falling heavily as sounds of thunder rumbled overhead. The ledge that showcased the Norwegian beach was a temptation, a calling to the end and the beginning simultaneously. The pouring rain squashed the temptation down. He already felt cold enough as it was.

It didn’t take long for the extra sips of whiskey to wear off, leaving him empty again. His stomach rumbled eagerly, begging him for food, but he couldn’t bring myself to go through the effort of cooking something or microwaving leftovers. He opted for the whiskey, gulping from the source. It burned on the way down but it only felt numb against the lining of this throat. 

The room was spinning again, and in a sense it was comforting. Being comforted was good. He didn’t remember the last time he felt comforted, felt the pull of someone who wanted to tell him that there was a place for him to go. He missed when those things came easy. Yet he had thrown it away when he was a Time Lord, and for what? 

He knew it was hopeless, but he attempted to reach out with his mind, with what little control he had over his weakened telepathy and tipsy state, but didn’t feel the singing. Didn’t get the little nudge in the back of his head that signaled her arrival, or the hum she did while he was trying to sleep. 

Silence. 

As quiet as the last million times he reached out.

That was all it took.

Wrapping his arms across his body, he encased himself in a ball, sobs escaping before he could stop them. He could feel the arms and hands press against his skin, squeezing himself into a smaller and smaller space as though to evaporate entirely. His line of sight still swam from his indulgence of booze, yet it was the only thing that made him feel any semblance of warmth. He began crying harder as though his chest were bursting at the seams, his single heart racing. He was struggling for breath from how hard the tears were falling, and almost instantly the exhaustion swept over him like a soft, heavy blanket.

The back of his throat still told him that he needed to cry, to get every last drop of whatever poison was in his system out, and he didn’t hold back for once. His anguish carried through the room, unable to fully expel the frustration and inability to feel the touch of another person.

It felt like hours when he finally uncurled himself from off the floor, his skin marked by his fingernails and red indents from where he kept his fingers. The bottle was empty.

Beams of light flittered past his sight as he walked down the hallway to his bedroom. It felt as though it could stretch for miles, yet the darkness from the dreary day kept the room just as eerily silent as the rest of the flat.

The softness of the pillow didn’t register to him, though as he faced the door, the second pillow empty beside him, he couldn’t help but reach out and touch the empty space. He hadn’t once moved it. The yearning stung so much that tears prickled his eyes again. It still smelled like her, even after so long. The room felt too large. Either that, or he was too small.

The Doctor gripped the edge of the sheets in the area where someone else might have laid, wishing it were that easy to reach out. Like everything else, though, he knew it would be met with silence. He didn’t want to feel it anymore.

Head still spinning, with the pressure behind his eyelids forcing him to shut his eyes, he welcomed the blank heaven that awaited him.

**Author's Note:**

> I've not been feeling well. I wanted to get it out. I'm sorry.


End file.
